with each low moan
Not yet. Not yet. Not this waking; that world
or this – they are the same. And yet. And yet.
Not this blessing, yet. This blessing; the curled
lip, the spiked dog collar, the ripped fishnet
stockings. No. My body is not my own.
Not yet. And yet? No sorrow? no regret?
no rage? Not yet. I fret. With each low moan
you pry from me, with each passing sunset,
passing moon rise, passing time, I sweat. You
praised the honey bee, sweet coffee, milkweed.
Anyone can praise bees. Praise my tattoo,
my junk sickness, my greed. Yes. Praise my greed.
I need all this, and yet. I need all this.
And yet. What you call greed and I call bliss.